Today's Stichomancy for H. P. Lovecraft

alas! can testify but too well: but what spirit--whether good or evil, I ask not--brought you on board, and whence? Where is your ship? I thought that all Drake's squadron had left six months ago."

"Our ship, senor, has lain this three years rotting on the coast near Cape Codera."

"Ah! we heard of that bold adventure--but we thought you all lost in the interior."

"You did? Can you tell me, then, where the senor governor of La Guayra may be now?"

"The Senor Don Guzman de Soto," said the commandant, in a somewhat

raison que l'Inde et la Grece nous presentent le phenomene de la plus riche mythologie a cote de la plus profonde metaphysique. "La conception de la multiplicite dans l'univers, c'est le polytheisme chez les peuples enfants; c'est la science chez les peuples arrives a l'age mur.--Renan, Hist. des Langues Semitiques, Tom. I. p. 9.

We are justified, accordingly, in distinguishing between a myth and a legend. Though the words are etymologically parallel, and though in ordinary discourse we may use them interchangeably, yet when strict accuracy is required, it is well to keep them separate. And it is perhaps needless, save

Myths and Myth-Makers

agent of the Missouri Fur Company. As has already been mentioned, this gentleman was going in search of Mr. Henry and his party, who had been dislodged from the forks of the Missouri by the Blackfeet Indians, and had shifted his post somewhere beyond the Rocky Mountains. Mr. Lisa had left St. Louis three weeks after Mr. Hunt, and having heard of the hostile intentions of the Sioux, had made the greatest exertions to overtake him, that they might pass through the dangerous part of the river together. He had twenty stout oarsmen in his service and they plied their oars so vigorously, that he had reached the Omaha village just four days after the departure of Mr. Hunt. From this place he

melody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the hour seeking vainly for utterance a word waiting to be spoken.

"How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas; "deeper than the sea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet it is not quite full and perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have not yet known--a repose of happiness that is still beyond us. What is it? I have no superstitions, like the king who cast his signet-ring into the sea because he dreaded that some secret vengeance would fall on his unbroken good fortune. That was an idle terror. But there is something that oppresses me like an invisible burden. There is